Sleeps With Butterflies
by BiOCaAM
Summary: It's a long road, but the one of healing is where you find yourself--even if it's in someone else. .:Victor/Linda:.
1. Glass Skin

"_Bleed from my arm, won't they give it a rest now?"  
_-Jimmy Eat World, "Bleed American"

* * *

_Where am I going in life?_

It's not the most appropriate question to dwell upon when you're lying on the sofa, tottering between different levels of consciousness while you're watching kids—the same kids you're supposed to be babysitting—mesmerized by the television. She resolved that these weren't the worst of the brats she's seen before, and thus she could enjoy a few minutes of rest. Squinting to see the time on the clock above the television set, she groaned when she saw the numbers '10:30' staring at her in the face. The girls were supposed to be in bed an hour ago.

Sitting up, Linda rubbed her eyes of the sleep and said groggily, "Alright Jeanne, Hannah, let's go to bed…"

"Aw, just five more minutes!" Jeanne pleaded, not even noticing the fact that her sister was fast asleep, mouth hanging open.

"Trust me; I'm going to bed the second I get home, too." She bent down to pick Hannah up. "Go brush your teeth and I'll be right there after I put Hannah down, alright?"

Jeanne nodded and ran off to the bathroom while Linda went into the baby's room, gently putting her into the crib. After wrapping a blanket around her and shutting the door, Linda went to Jeanne's room, where the seven-year-old was sitting up in bed, reading a book.

"Hey.".

"Hi. I'm sorry about falling asleep like that; things just aren't going great for me lately. I'm tired all the time for some reason."

"Linda, why are there so many bruises on your arm?"

_Oh God, please tell me…?!_

No. She couldn't have seen them, could she? She was wearing a long-sleeved shirt on purpose, just until they healed. It was just a small chain of black and blues, nothing more. Unless you truly concentrated, you couldn't notice them at all.

This was before Linda remembered that she had rolled up her sleeves.

Laughing nervously, she tried to think of an acceptable excuse. Not even her mother questioned her about it. "I fell down the stairs, that's all. It was my own fault." At least the latter part was true. Jeanne narrowed her eyes, but didn't say anything. She bought into her little white lie—for now, anyway.

"I'll see you in a few days, alright?"

The younger girl nodded, eyes still narrowed.

Linda turned out the lights and left the room, softly shutting the door. It took all she had just to keep the tears at bay. She could so easily lie to her parents, her friends, but it destroyed her to lie to only the smartest seven-year-old she ever knew.

* * *

He couldn't really explain it, but things were different without Stiles and Thompson around. And god damn, things were a lot more boring. With GUILT being virtually down the drain, there wasn't much else to concentrate on. He wasn't concerned with the victims of an _unfortunate_ car accident—hey, it was _their_ fault that they were driving drunk in the first place—or the people with easily curable diseases. He increasingly found himself going home early; whatever 'home' was, anyway.

"Don't even think about it now, Victor."

That wasn't exactly what he wanted to hear the second he walked out of the door, either. Sidney Kasal gave him a curt nod of acknowledgment before going on to say, "Since you don't have anything to do, you can prepare the anesthesia for the next surgery."

He rolled his eyes, groaning exaggeratedly. "Do I _have_ to?"

"Yes, you do. Stop acting like a child and follow the rest of them."

Ever since Meyers and the oh-so-romantic lovebirds left, he was in charge of various menial tasks that he otherwise would never have bothered with. Mostly because there was never a need to, in all honesty. And look at him now; reduced to this, having to constantly assist those idiots in whatever they were doing. He missed the days where he could go for hours without having to even listen to the morons' banter.

Getting the morphine drip ready, he wheeled it down the operating room, where Chase, Kasal and Sears were huddled around a girl—no older than twenty, at most—waiting for him to fix the morphine into place. Sticking the IV roughly into her arm, his eyes barely passed over her face; bloody and tear-stained, sleek black hair matted around the side of her head. It was strange, but he genuinely wondered what happened for once.

"Can I please go now?" he asked with strained politeness, if that was even possible.

"No," Kasal answered bluntly and was Chase actually _smirking_ at him? He continued briefing them on the situation.

"…came here after her parents found her unconscious and bleeding, but there's internal hemorrhaging. If we don't appease it immediately, she'll bleed to death."

"Wait, they don't know what happened to her?" Tyler looked mildly surprised, if only because the reason the patient was there was usually explained.

Kasal, much to Victor's shock, actually faltered. "Her parents have…suspicions, but they refuse to say anything. Let's not waste any more time, then."

He doubted that any of them knew what those 'suspicions' were, but he had a very dire feeling that they were what he thought they were.

* * *

_Ugh…_

Her body felt as though it had been hit by a train; more specifically, her midsection felt like it had. Where was she, anyway? She couldn't draw conclusions from eyesight—she didn't have the strength to open her eyes—but the place smelled sterile and there was an eerie silence suspended in the air. A chill passed through her body, and she instinctively opened her eyes and tried to sit up.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Even a tired, disembodied voice was welcome to her ears after what happened in the hours before. That's right…why wasn't she at home? Wasn't that where her argument with him had taken place?

Oh.

Her stomach sunk when she realized that she was in the hospital. Panic, relief, sadness—they all flashed through her mind, all at once. That emotional overload was too much for her to take, and she blurted out, "It hurts." She didn't even care who she was saying it to, she just needed someone to listen to her without making her feel worthless.

"I'd be pretty damn surprised if it didn't. That was by far one of the worst hemorrhages I've seen in a while. If you got here a second later, you probably would've died."

Linda squirmed beneath the covers, trying to dig deeper into the sheets. She tried to think of something to say. "How did I get here?"

There was a slight mocking tone in the man's—at least, she hoped it was a man's—voice. She didn't even want to know if that was integral or just suited to his mood at the moment. "Your parents found you bleeding to death. Can't exactly blame them for bringing you _somewhere_."

There was an uncomfortable silence. She knew that he'd ask about what happened, but she just wasn't ready to tell anyone yet. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her that if she didn't tell someone eventually, she'd probably never be able to get out of the mess she had gotten herself into.

_Tell me something I don't know, Conscience_. The thought was sickly casual, and she immediately felt terrible for thinking it.

More silence. This was slowly killing her before he said, "Well, I have better things to do than hang around a girl who lets her boyfriend use her as a punching bag."

Fuck the pain; she sat up at an almost inhuman velocity. "W-What?" She ignored the agony that soon ignited in her abdomen, focusing more on what he just said. There was no way in hell he could've known about what happened.

Sure enough, the man—who looked vaguely familiar, although she couldn't place where exactly she had seen him before—shrugged his shoulders. "You heard what I said. Unlike most of the idiots here, I have a sense of perception. And the look on your face says everything."

Linda was on the verge of tears at this point. She somehow doubted that someone like him would go through the trouble of telling someone, but it didn't matter.

Someone knew, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

For her sake, he would keep the fact that she was being knocked around by her 'boyfriend' a secret. But really? He knew that it was the desperate tone of her voice that really sealed the deal. The picture of her sitting up, eyes tearing over, holding her stomach in pain, just wouldn't leave him alone.

"_Please, if you tell anyone, he'll kill me!"_

That was no exaggeration, unfortunately. If there was one thing he hated more than morons, it had to be guys who thought they were high-and-mighty because they had the nerve to punch a girl. Then they would turn around and say that they were sorry, they'd never do it again. And girls like her were foolish enough to believe them—

_Snap_.

He didn't even realize how worked up he was over something that was, in reality, none of his business until the pencil he had been absently doodling with snapped in half.

"Jesus, Niguel, you look like you could kill someone right now. What's wrong?"

He looked up from the piece of paper to see Chase sliding into the seat opposite him and ground his teeth. He was in no mood to put up with idiocy.

"Nothing."

"Nothing, my ass. What's wrong?"

Chewing on the inside of his lip, Victor figured that Chase wouldn't leave him alone unless he gave him some kind of answer that wasn't completely made of bullshit.

Suddenly standing up, he mumbled, "_Everything's_ wrong."

* * *

When her parents asked with typical concern what had happened, she came up with the acceptable excuse of 'I fell down the stairs.' They had merely looked at each other, their faces contorting with confusion. Linda just shrugged her shoulders and furrowed her eyebrows, looking away. She couldn't bear to tell her parents the truth. If she had pleaded to whatshisname not to tell anyone, she'd be a bit of a hypocrite to turn around and spout off to her parents, wouldn't she?

"Well, if there's anything you need, just tell us," her mother told her, stroking her arm as they stood up to leave. "We love you."

"I love you too," Linda murmured, forcing a smile. At least she had retained that skill. It was almost sad how much it came to be useful.

They left her room, and she sank deeper into the bed, feeling the ever familiar sensation of guilt coming back, weighing on her like bricks. She silently promised them that she'd tell them eventually about the monster that was her boyfriend. That it was his fault that she was here, that it was because of him she became so detached from everything.

_But they had been infatuated with the guy, too,_ she thought miserably. They would never believe what she told them. She mulled over this fact for a while before thinking about how she got into this mess in the first place. It was still blurry in her mind, but it was there all the same; the screaming, the occasional flashes of black and red, the sound of the door flying open as he took his leave, waiting for her to die…

She didn't even realize she was crying until she saw the small dots of moisture dropping onto the sheets. Quickly wiping her eyes, she looked up to see Whathisname staring at her, an eyebrow raised. Ugh. It was the last thing she needed.

"You're a doctor, right? Don't you have something to do?" she asked, not really caring either way; she just wanted him off her back.

"Not really, actually." He plopped into the chair by the door and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "It's so goddamn boring around here since the interesting people left."

She sat up. "Interesting people?"

"Huh? Oh, nobody, just talking to myself…"

"Ah." She tapped her finger against her lip. "I wonder where Derek and Angie went."

"Wait, you know them?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Oh yeah," Linda said, nodding to herself. "The last time I saw them was a year ago, I think." Yes, that was when out of seemingly nowhere she was sick again, all because of the same GUILT she had three years before. The very same GUILT that she had wanted to kill her…Well, it probably would be a good idea to clarify this to Whatshisname, because he was still looking at her expectantly.

"I had GUILT a few years ago, and Derek was the one who operated on me," she told him, twirling her hair around her finger. "Although, he did tell me afterwards that he had no idea what the hell he was doing at the time." She had to suppress a laugh when she thought of his expression when he told her that; awkward, dorky, adorable.

And she felt inexplicably sad when she thought of the times when she had been happy.

So after a little probing, he had found out that this was Stiles' first GUILT patient, back when he was still at a 'normal' hospital. He didn't tell her the whole story about the Hands of Asclepius and Neo-GUILT—he wasn't even allowed to, anyway—but she wasn't particularly curious about it, anyway. Half the time she had something of a vacant stare, despite the fact that she was listening to him carefully. Damn, he really _was_ bored to talk to a girl like this.

He figured that he might as well ask for her name, since he was getting tired of calling her 'girl' in his head.

She seemed to falter when he asked her, her gaze clouding over for a moment, as though she was remembering something she'd rather forget about. Still, she carefully answered, "Linda."

_Linda_, he repeated mentally. He liked the way it sounded. Not like the millions of Rebeccas and Ashleys and Kaylas. It actually didn't remind him of a squealing teenage girl. It had an eerie softness to it.

_Why the hell am I thinking about _that _of all things?_

"Hello?"

"What?"

Linda was bobbing her head back and forth, looking extremely irritated. "I asked you, what's your name?"

Oh. Why was he suddenly at a loss for words? It was just his _name_ for God's sake!

"Er, Victor. Yeah…"

"Victor…" she repeated before closing her eyes and plopping her head on the pillow.

He used this opportunity to get the hell out of there, because he couldn't stand to hear her defeated voice, let alone saying his name with an unusual degree of calmness.

He resisted the urge to tell someone about the sad fucker that was making her life so blatantly miserable.

* * *

_Oh hay guise am I doin' it rite?_

_So yes, I'm trudging into the TC fandom with a waaaangsty VictorxLinda story. I honestly thought I was the only person who could've possibly dreamed a cracky pairing like this up, but apparently I'm not, because In The Beginning and TCGeek support it too. ILU guys._

_Yes, this is multichaptered. It's for my 10 Themes claim at livejournal. The prompt for this particular chapter is 'Depression.' Poor Linda. She always gets the short end of the stick in life, doesn't she? Anyway, I'll see you next time. 8D (moseys off to finish her other stories)  
_


	2. This Blissful Ignorance

"_If only you knew the pain, the pain I keep inside; the pain that makes me me, then without it who am I?"_

-Amber Pacific, "Save Me From Me"

* * *

The phone cord felt more like a noose around her neck.

She didn't have to do it. She could've just hung up and gone on her way, but he needed to know about the magnitude of what he did to her. It was out of fear for her own life that she had stayed, and she had put it in jeopardy anyway. Was she only delaying the inevitable?

Her breath was shaky and labored when he heard his voice. "Hello?"

"H-Hi. Troy?"

There was silence on the other end, and she resisted the urge to start crying until she fell asleep or bang her head against the wall until she was knocked out. Anything just to be unconscious again, because her mind was the only place where she ever felt truly safe.

"Linda? Where are you?"

She swallowed, debating on whether to tell him the truth or not. She had dialed the numbers with confidence, preparing to put the asshole in his place. But actually hearing his voice, knowing that he was just a few miles away, completely deterred her from even trying to say anything relating to the incident a few nights before. He could find her…all he had to do was ask her parents, if not the attendance office at school. She wasn't ready to see him—not yet, anyway.

"I'm," she began, taking a deep breath, switching the phone to the other ear, "at the hospital." Her voice was barely above a whisper, and she knew she'd have to keep the volume of their conversation in check. If anybody happened to be passing by, they could get curious, eavesdrop and figure everything out for themselves. That would be when the real trouble began.

"_What?"_ was his reply, a mix of surprise and lividness. Linda's heart leapt into her chest, her eyes widening. How was she going to explain what happened without revealing too much? More importantly, how could she explain that it wasn't her decision to go there?

"Listen before you say anything. I passed out after…after…_that_. My parents came home and found me, and they just called the hospital. That's it. I didn't do anything, I swear!" It was an irrational plea, just to assure him that it wasn't her fault that she was here.

He sighed. She could almost picture him rubbing his forehead, trying to think of an acceptable approach to the situation. "Why…why?" he asked, his voice shaking with barely controlled anger. "You think this is a joke, Linda? What did you tell them?"

Her lip quivered. "I—"

"_What the fuck did you tell them?!"_

"Nothing! I didn't tell them anything, okay? I said I fell down the stairs and they believed me. So you can sleep safe tonight. No cops are going to be showing up at your door," she said, much louder than was allowable. "Does it even occur to you that you almost _killed_ me?" She felt a rare moment of strength in that moment, no longer intimidated by the man who claimed her life for himself.

Her stomach flipped when she heard his amused laughter. "Oh please, give me a break. You always did exaggerate even the smallest problem. That's really fucking annoying, you know that?"

_Don't let him get to you, Linda. If he hears even the slightest waver in your voice…_she thought. She gnashed her teeth in frustration, feeling a hot tear roll down her cheek. "I swear to God, Troy…I'm going to tell someone."

"I'd love to see you try."

"Fine, I will."

"Do it, and I'll kill you."

Sweat. Tears. She couldn't differentiate anymore—all she could focus on was what he said. Impossible. He couldn't kill her, could he? She knew in the back of her mind that he was a man of his word. He wouldn't hesitate to do something like that. Her vision was blurry, she felt nauseous, everything was collapsing right in front of her.

_He'll find me_, she thought weakly. _He'll kill me, and no one will believe he did it._

* * *

She had wanted to get back to her normal life as soon as possible, but now she wasn't so sure. Linda knew that he would be keeping tabs on her even more than he used to. She couldn't tell her parents, she couldn't tell her friends.

There was no escape, and this terrified her beyond all rational thought.

Pacing around her room, she debated a course of action. Just saying that he was doing these things to her wasn't enough to get a restraining order or anything like that. And restraining orders were simply pieces of paper, anyway; they didn't actually do anything that would help the situation. She bit her nail tentatively, too terrified to do even that. She had spent all this time deluding herself that nothing was wrong and that even if something was wrong, she had the power to fix it by herself.

No, she couldn't fix this by herself. Every time she had the urge to tell her parents, the words died in her throat, falling back into her stomach, where they melted into sour acid, eating away at her. She wanted to be free of the pain that she had been subjected to for so long—if not at his hands, then at her own.

She plopped into a chair and groaned in frustration. The same pain she hated was also the same pain that had made her who she was. If someone took that away from her, who would she be? That's right; she'd be nothing at all.

Drawing her knees to her chest, she realized just how alone she was. Linda smiled bitterly. She had always been alone, hadn't she? From the time she was in kindergarten through high school, she had always been 'that girl.' The girl who hid from the others, too scared to play with the fire that was undoubtedly a class full of six-year-olds. In middle school, she was the girl who sat in the back of the room, scribbling in her notebook. The girl who slit her wrists, the girl who everybody seemed to love to make fun of.

The girl she saw in the mirror every morning.

She _hated_ that girl.

* * *

He knows that she'll be back in the hospital when he sees her leaving.

He wasn't well-versed in terms of psychology, but it was human instinct. He could see that she wasn't one to rat people out for her own safety. The brow furrowed deep in concentration, eyes darting around everywhere…she was screaming 'insecurity.' And it was amazing how her parents let all this fly by them.

For all he could see, she was nothing more than a ghost.

He wasn't particularly upset. No, Victor didn't let trivial things like that upset him. He had better things to waste his temper on.

_As if assholes don't deserve what's coming to them._

He couldn't bring himself to concentrate on anything other than her. It was stupid and utterly irrational, but he'd feel guilty if he heard that she was sent six feet under because of some overly horny teenager who probably stole his dad's beer when he wasn't looking.

It was strange how karma worked. The whole 'what goes around comes around' philosophy was bullshit, because people never really did get what was supposedly coming to them. The people who hadn't done anything wrong, the weak, the helpless…they were always the ones who had to pay for others' mistakes.

To be fair, the ones who were taken advantage of also were the naïve ones. It was all about survival of the fittest, and if you couldn't pick up the pace and run ahead of the others, then it was only logical that you'd fall behind and get trampled on.

_Way to miss the point, Niguel, _he thought to himself irritably, wondering why he was even mulling over moot points of so-called 'philosophy.' There was a reason he was a scientist and not a college professor. Philosophy and science supposedly went hand-in-hand, but that was ridiculous. Philosophy was never a fact and varied from person to person. Science wasn't disputed, and certainly wasn't based on opinion.

This brought him back to psychology, which was a mix of the two.

He fell back into his chair and threw and arm over his eyes, trying to block out Linda Reid and the ridiculous hope for her life that he foolishly held onto.

* * *

The sign that she truly was going crazy was when she didn't feel safe in her room.

Her room was her sanctuary, a divine escape from the despair of her everyday life. Without this small, contained space of sweet salvation, Linda didn't know what she would do. Everything—her entire _life_—was within the confines of its walls. When he began to permeate them, she couldn't even sleep safely in her bed.

Lying in bed that night, she slipped a hand underneath her shirt and slowly trailed it down to her abdomen, flinching at the rigid touch of stitches. Sitting up, her hand remained there as she blinked absently in the darkness. There was so much to think about, so much to decide—and yet, she could not force a steady subject into her mind. It raced withthe events of the past three days, the building up of a silent apocalypse, and her inevitable downfall.

She thought of Victor.

There was no reason to think about him; after all, he was merely a passing character, one that she'd likely never see again. All the same, she couldn't divert her thoughts away from him. Just by looking at him, you could tell that he was everything that she was not. He was confident, unafraid—at least, courageous enough to do what he wanted to do. And where was she? She was cowardly, bound by the wishes of everyone around her to do something 'useful' with her life. Why couldn't they simply leave her to do what she loved?

"_Writing music isn't going to pay the bills, honey."_

And there they were once again; the angry tears of a frustrated young woman. So common, yet so priceless all the same. As the they fell into her open palm, she came to a realization. As worthless as she was, why would it matter to anybody else what she did with her life? It wasn't theirs to live, after all.

Wasn't she told that she was on a promising road, anyway? Her teacher had said that if she kept up her studies and continued to be active in the music department of their school, then she'd surely have a chance to be accepted into the school of her dreams. Right now, that seemed out of reach, but nothing in her heart came before it. Blinking, Linda hopped out of her bed slowly and strode over to her desk, turning the small light on.

On the desk, there were scattered papers; some of them assignments that she had forgotten, others stray pieces of music, ones she had received or written herself, but at the heart of it all was the most telling evidence of her soul's desire.

_Berklee College of Music._

Monday, two weeks later.

It was another day of school, a duality in itself. It acted as both a safe haven and a fiery hell for her. If not for those two hours of bliss in the music trailer, she'd surely have fallen much lower than was at the moment. Her only chance to shine lied within that trailer, even through the rundown, ancient equipment and instruments. Nobody understood her raw passion for the sweet arrangement of simple notes, save for her teacher. Even the students she occasionally taught had no idea just how it drove her to new heights, ones that she could never even hope for back when she was thirteen.

But she didn't need them to understand. She was satisfied with teaching them, and she was happy with the knowledge that she was slowly bettering herself not only as a musician, but as a learner. If only she could apply this to the non-musical realm, she'd be in much better shape as a person.

She was a _human_ before anything else, although the way she was treated wouldn't tell you that.

Striding into the trailer after school, she wasn't sure what to make of the empty classroom. There would usually be students chattering with Mr. Ash or whining that their instruments were broken, or maybe even pleading for band practice to be canceled that evening. Either way, a band trailer without its students was extremely rare. In her peripheral vision, she couldn't even see the music department head himself.

"Mr. Ash?" she called out tentatively, growing all the more suspicious. This was well beyond strange. _No, that's just paranoia,_ she told herself when something inside of her screamed for her to run, run the _fuck away_. But there was an unnatural aura suspending itself in the room, slowly but surely catching up with her.

_Stop, Linda. You're only going to put more unnecessary pressure on yourself._ The words raced faster, each more desperate and pleading than the ones before it. It was no longer her inner paranoid muse speaking to her; it was true, animalistic instinct that told her these things. Logic dictated that any normal person would run away at light speed, especially if they had no business in that place, but her legs remained frozen. Perhaps it truly was nothing more than paranoia, but better safe than sorry.

And yet, she couldn't bring herself to move. A wave of chills attacked her spine, causing her to fold her arms tightly across her chest. Her legs decided to move forward slightly, just to see if there would be a reaction, God forbid there was anyone else in the room that she didn't know.

There was a click towards the back, where the front door was. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to turn around to see who it was. She figured that someone would recognize her and at least try to get her attention, but there was no indication that they knew her, or she knew them. There was nothing, save for the gentle taps of someone's feet against the carpet.

She forced herself to turn around to see the offending party, and sincerely wished she had remained oblivious to the identity of the intruder.

There was nothing. Nothing. At. All.

"Come _on_, Linda. You really didn't think I'd let you off so easily after such a close call, did you? I have to make sure you're not going to do it again."

Her eyesight had gone blurry, but the last damn thing she wanted at this point was the sense of sight. She'd much rather be blind—and deaf wouldn't be so bad, either—than having the ability to see the monster before her.

She knew that Troy was a cunning man. She had naively mistaken that for nothing more than playful cleverness, but down the line she had realized her grave error. He was not a man who casually came home drunk and beat his girlfriend because of blurred judgment. No, he took sick pleasure in this little game of his.

And this was simply the next step.

"You…you're _insane_…how…" she muttered, trying to wrap her mind around the situation before her. She was on the ground, she knew that much—and he was pinning her to the floor. They were in the secluded storage room, the door locked behind them. The only witnesses to the crime to follow were the folders and binders, the stacks of cases, and perhaps anybody who happened to be looking through the small window of the room's door.

"Or maybe you're just blind. You've never been skilled at reading people, have you, Linda? You didn't understand yourself, so how could you possibly hope to understand others?" he whispered darkly, the malicious intent in his voice slowly surfacing. "You were so easy, you know. Men like that—they like when they can have such a vulnerable girl like you in the palm of their hand, willing to submit to them. And it's a plus when that girl is pretty, too."

The words that were bubbling, steaming, _screaming_ to be released now retracted themselves at this sudden revelation. Her cloudy blues eyes searched his dark ones, looking for a sign of remorse, guilt—hell, _any_ emotion would be fine right now. If she couldn't find that, he might as well be labeled a sociopath, especially if he was going to do what she thought he was going to do.

It didn't make any difference, though, because the more he destroyed her, the less she felt.

And within the next few hours, there was nothing, except her silent screams and the sound of what remained of her heart breaking.

* * *

_Okay, I know that I'm going to ruin the mood here, but: Oh noez, Linda! D8 I hate being so cruel to you. Really, it pained me to write the last scene (er, which wasn't as intense as I'd hoped, but I suppose that comes with the discomfort of writing non-con. Hopefully, you got the message clear enough), especially with the previous establishment of her somewhat naïve, optimistic dreams, the only color in her bleak world. Now, you may be wondering how Victor will tie into all of this. I have no intentions for him to be the superhero in this little tale, because he has his own issues. In order to save someone, you must first save yourself, wouldn't you agree?_

_However, Victor will play a pivotal role in the advancement of the plot. Yes, I have plans for him and Troy to eventually meet. Not brawl, of course, but close enough! (laughs) As for Troy, I'm terribly sorry for including OCs in a story, because I usually hate them. But I'm rather fond of him—or rather, the opportunity to develop him and integrate him into the plot. He won't be making any significant appearances for the next couple of chapters, though._

_Okay, that's enough ranting for now! Thank you to my reviewers—your light is what keeps me going, truly! I appreciate it very much, and happy holidays. (I'm a bit late for Christmas, I'm afraid) Also, I found it terribly coincidental that 'Sleeps With Butterflies' by Tori Amos--the namesake of this very story!--came up on shuffle when I was done editing this chapter. Cheers!_

* * *


	3. Liberation

"_A blackout approaching, here it comes now, wish me luck; I__t's all over, it's all over in a flash, I can't remember—What have I done now?"_

-Imogen Heap, "Glittering Clouds"

She was never the type to hold a grudge or hate someone, but maybe she should've gotten used to the feeling before deciding to do so.

Even though she repeatedly tried to assure herself that things were not as bad as they seemed at the moment, it was counterproductive and only served to increase her paranoia. She was in the very situation she condemned in peers her age and for all the wrong reasons. If word was leaked about her dilemma, the impending glances that she'd receive from the other students would lead her to the same fate she possessed four years earlier. Linda never bothered to ask herself why exactly this sequence of bad luck seemed to afflict her; to the best of her memory, she had never broken a mirror or stepped underneath a ladder or anything of the superstitious sort.

She knew that she had to think less about why this had occurred than how she was going to fix it. Abortion was already out of the question; she'd never do something so callous and invasive to her own body. On the other hand, if she did give birth, there would be even more problems for her. How would she take care of the baby? How would she explain what had happened to her parents? Would they even believe her?

She went through her days without dwelling too much on it, but if she didn't make a swift decision, things would get out of hand.

Sighing, Linda chewed on the tip of her pen as she attempted to concentrate on the calculus assignments that mixed in freely with the unrelated papers on her desk. The window was open, the cool breeze sharpening her senses but failing to give her the motivation to do anything except stare at the blank pieces of paper that would be inevitably scribbled over into the late hours of the night.

Standing up, she went over to the stereo and absently went through her CDs, not knowing what exactly she was in the mood for. Skipping the jazz and classical sections entirely, she found herself stuck on alternative and instrumentals. After some internal debate, she settled for an older instrumental group.

In three days, she'd turn eighteen. Time had passed so quickly, leaving her utterly confused as to what the next step in life would be. Her parents hadn't been enthusiastic in offering her any advice, and she it would be strange for a seemingly decisive girl like her to suddenly ask anyone for guidance.

She just looked out the window, watching tree branches lash out at each other.

* * *

Linda couldn't think straight after spending more than twelve hours at school.

Standing at the bus stop, her shoulders were slumped and she was fairly certain that her hair was sticking out at all ends. Being a Friday, the night was just beginning for downtown Los Angeles. She eyed her classmates enviously as they laughed and went from this place to that, no doubt doing something illegal in the process. Wincing at the sudden pain in her lower abdomen, Linda swallowed and took a breath in relief when she saw the bus. Fishing some change out of her pocket, she all too eagerly hopped up the steps, only to find that there was a grand total of one seat left.

In the very back, she saw someone sitting by a window, the seat next to them vacant. Shuffling uncomfortably, she dropped the change into the metal box and made her way down the aisle. She couldn't tell if said person was sleeping or not, but it would make sense if they did; few others appeared to be awake.

"'Scuse me, can I sit here?" she asked, shocked at the exhausted tone she was using.

The person turned his (at least, she believed it wasn't 'her') head and looked up at her, quirking an eyebrow. Upon further inspection, there was a sudden lump in her throat after realizing who he was.

"Victor?"

If the rolling of his eyes was any indication, then she was clearly unwelcome. Frowning, she ventured, "Come on, there's nowhere else to sit, and I'm too tired to stand."

He said nothing; he merely turned to the window and mumbled something inaudible. She took that as clearance and took a seat next to him, setting her backpack underneath the seat, taking her cell phone to see the time. Her stomach sank when the clock flashed 10:30, knowing that her parents were not going to be happy in the slightest.

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye and bit her lip, debating on whether she should ask him what she so desperately wanted to know. There would be few other opportunities; she had no money to go see a professional, and there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that she was about to tell her parents. Linda took a deep breath and steadied herself.

"Can I ask you something?"

She could almost feel him rolling his eyes again, but he sat up and looked at her. "What?" he responded, his voice condescending. She did her best to ignore it and chalk it up to his personality, even if she didn't know much about him.

"I know you're not a doctor, but you have to know a little about this…" Closing her eyes, she tried to make the words materialize in her mind, but it wasn't working. "And I—I really don't know who else to ask."

"Get to the point already, Reid."

"What…What happens to you after you get an abortion? I mean, you probably don't know a lot, but anything's more than what I know, and—" She paused, measuring her words. "I guess it's a big deal right now."

He was staring at her, and she didn't like that. It wasn't surprised, annoyed, anything at all; it was completely blank. Tilting her head to the side, she wrapped her arms around her midsection, waiting for a response.

After a few awkward moments, he huffed in frustration and sunk back into his seat. "Shit finally hit the fan, did it?" he inquired offhandedly, raising an eyebrow.

Linda tried not to look shocked, but ultimately failed, turning her head away. "The _how_ is none of your business."

"I wouldn't give a damn anyway."

"You're avoiding my question, then."

"Do I look like a fucking gynecologist? How would I know anything?"

She probably looked sufficiently crestfallen at that moment, because he just groaned and resumed his intense activity of looking out the window.

She resolved that if she had nearly an hour to waste before she even got close to home, she would might as well get a head start on her homework. Not particularly in the mood to strike out calculus yet, she settled for music theory and pulled out her notebook, turning to a fresh page.

_Draw the harmonic, melodic, and natural minor scales in each of the following keys:_

_A, G#, Bb, F, A#, D#, D, Eb, G_

_Using the appropriate key signature in each case._

"Damn…" she muttered, chewing on the tip of her pencil. It would be agonizingly easy, but time consuming all the same. As she began to outline the staff and filling in the appropriate answers, she felt someone staring over her shoulder.

Turning, she scowled at Victor, who was apparently vaguely intrigued by what she was doing. "Can I help you?"

"Are you seriously putting any effort into _that_?" His voice truly did succeed in making her cringe this time around, if only because he was insulting the very thing she loved the most.

"What are you saying? That I'm wasting my time doing this?" she said harshly, but she's glad for this distraction, because otherwise she would be either stuck or her mind would drift to topics that she honestly did not want to think about.

He folded his arms with an arrogant smirk, the very image of 'conceited asshole.' "You are. Those kinds of things are wastes of time."

"Who the hell are _you_ to say that?"

"I think I'm in a much better position than you to say anything I wa—" He stopped dead, for reasons she didn't know, but something told her that it was one of the few times he did done so.

* * *

Victor was incredibly lucky to have caught himself in time before he said something that would make the rest of the ride unbearably awkward.

But he was only telling her the truth. Wasting her time on a petty things like music wasn't going to help her at all. Still, he was curious to see if this was where her talents lied.

Plucking the notebook from her lap, he ignored her protests and opened to the fifth or sixth page, and already he had a headache. Just by glancing at it, he could tell that the utmost attention had been paid to whatever assignment it was. Turning a few more pages, he noticed a comment written towards the bottom of the page.

"_Linda,_

_I wish I could tell you this in person, but that won't be possible for some time, so I'll let you know here that in my thirty years of teaching at this school, I have never seen such prodigious skill displayed by any individual student. From what Annette recorded, the piece was mysterious, yet passionate, with the emotions transitioning smoothly between intervals. I was doubtful when I heard that it had been arranged for the acoustic guitar with a percussion accompaniment, but you completely proved me wrong yet again. You never cease to amaze me, and I truly believe that this piece is something you can take even further, perhaps becoming a modern masterpiece, as it were. I hope to return to school soon, but for now, I trust that you've been faithfully conducting the evening concert band. Don't forget that you have my utmost respect as a growing musician, and this year is critical in determining your future. With work like this, your dreams of Berkeley are indeed very likely to come true."_

He had been so used to receiving laudatory remarks from his teachers, but on one hand, science was a completely different subject compared to music. He didn't think that there was much to praise, but this teacher could apparently find many reasons to do so. He turned back a page to look at the source material before giving up, the key signatures and dynamic markings giving him a headache. It was too late for this, anyway.

"Hn." Victor handed the notebook back, and she recoiled slightly before taking it.

"My teacher overestimates me," she said quietly, placing the notebook back into her bag. "I don't know why. I mean, I'm pretty good at what I do, I guess, but he thinks everything I write could pass to be a work of Mozart." Her hands were folded in her lap, and she looked as though she was trying her damned hardest to make eye contact, but she was failing.

He shook his head. First Reid was defensive when he dared to criticize the fact that she was wasting her time on music, and now she was attempting to be modest?

"You want to go to Berkeley?" He couldn't do small talk worth a damn, but he didn't want to put up with one of her spastic breakdowns.

The teenager looked a little intrigued by the fact that he would bother to ask this, but she answered carefully, "Yes, why?"

Victor stopped slumping over; it was beginning to be uncomfortable, or maybe that was just the direction of the conversation. "Those are pretty high hopes."

"Yeah, I know, but nothing will happen if I don't try, even if I probably won't get in," she noted, a hint of disappointment in her voice. She had already resigned herself to the fact that she wouldn't be good enough.

That one subject hung between them like a brick wall, but, to be frank, he didn't want to go there and she probably wouldn't be too appreciative of his attempts to pry into her private life, anyway. Then again, _she _was the one who had asked him, and there really wasn't anything better to do, so he decided to at least try to satisfy his curiosity.

"So what happened to you that you felt the sudden urge to ask about abortion?"

Reid visibly tensed, shoving her hands into her pockets. "I…well, that's not really any of your business, is it?"

He assumed his initial position of looking out the window. "You're right, it's not." He chose not to press the subject further, knowing that reverse psychology would work wonders in this situation. Sure enough, after a few silent moments, she lowered her voice to a weak whisper and spoke.

"You're not really the type of person who seems as though they would listen, but…" She was trying to make eye contact with him, he could feel it, but he still didn't turn around. "I think I'm pregnant."

"Obviously, if you asked me what happens if you get an abortion."

Victor wouldn't let it on, but he knew as well as anyone that it wasn't this fact that mattered, but the aforementioned 'how' surrounding the circumstances.

* * *

She wasn't sure if she could do this. She had been so prepared to keep everything inside, but there was a sudden urge to tell the man in front of her—one she hardly knew—everything. Maybe he wouldn't listen; that would be even better. But the words threatened to spill over at any moment, the words that she should've told someone weeks before.

"It wasn't my fault," she said, the words coming out much softer than she intended.

"Hey, it's just as much your fault as it's his."

"I didn't want to, and I told him so. But he made me take it anyway, like the good girlfriend I'm supposed to be." Her arm instinctively wrapped around her abdomen, and she felt strength spread like fire in her chest, and she said the thoughts she had so long wanted to say.

"And now I have to carry the burden? That's bullshit. That's not fair! Why can't _he_ get what should be coming to him for once?" She bit her lip, reluctant to continue, but she had to get her feelings out there. If she stopped now, she wouldn't be doing a complete job. Linda didn't even care if Victor was listening at this point, it just felt so good, so _liberating_ to acknowledge these feelings. "I fucking _hate _him! If I didn't actually care about my life, I'd kill him, I really would!"

After this passionate confession, she looked up to see Victor staring at her, surprise turning into amusement as he smirked and told her, "So you have more backbone than I thought you did. Or is it just because you're tired?"

She felt her cheeks redden and mumbled, "I, well, um…"

"So you're in some pretty deep shit. You know what you do then? You get out. Amazing, right?"

In spite of herself, she laughed, and for a fleeting moment, she could forget about her problems. No matter how misanthropic or bitter he seemed, Victor was company, and that was all she needed.

They had both missed their stops by thirty minutes.

_I am so terrible for putting this off for months. I didn't mean any harm by it, really! Life got hectic, and writer's block seemed to hit me at the worst possible time. But I haven't abandoned this story, don't worry—much the opposite, actually. The plot's (what plot?) going to thicken soon, I promise. This chapter was yet again, setting up a few things and furthering Linda and Victor's relationship, even though I expanded on her misfortune. I'm so terrible. To be honest, I'm afraid that I'm not keeping Victor and Linda in character…in that case, I'd appreciate it if you let me know so I could fix it! It should inspire me to pick up Second Opinion again, as I've lost Under The Knife. D: Bad fan is bad!_

_My god, I talk a lot. I'm sorry for wasting your time! I hope to have the next chapter up sometime in May, because I'm off to Boston towards the end of April for my band trip. 8U It shall be loads of fun. Anyway, thank you, reviewers, for being ever so faithful and giving me the courage to march on! Until next time.~_


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